The Well-Mannered War Part 23

But the Femdroid was not listening. Her fingers were on her amulet, receiving a message. When she looked up her face looked pinched and perturbed. 'Disturbing news, Premier. Rioting has broken out in some of the outlying settlements. And there is unrest in Sector 6 of the city.'

Harmock flinched. 'Unrest?'

'Some looting and damage to property. The security forces are trying to contain it.'

Harmock looked out over the night city, his mind struggling to contain the information. 'But - but what does this mean?'

'Public panic, Premier,' said Galatea. 'The citizens fear that the Chelonians will win the war and then come here.'

'But that isn't going to happen, is it?'

'No,' said Galatea.

The fear vanished from Harmock's mind. 'Then everything's all right, isn't it, really? Dispatch a statement condemning the unrest anyway. Still no link with Barclow?'

'My technicians are trying as best they can,' said Galatea.

Harmock stood and looked out at the night sky from his large window. 'I wish I knew what was going on up there.'

In spite of her mechanical status, the Femdroid newscaster was starting to show signs of alarm. Her hand was held constantly over the amulet at her neck, which buzzed and flickered constantly, and her voice contained a tinge of disquiet. 'Rioting is starting to spread through the city as night goes on. I've just heard that over two hundred citizens have been killed in an explosion at the gas refinery in Section 5, and there are many more injured...'

The glow thrown out by the explosion made the sky above the city burnt orange. K9 turned ruefully from the window. 'The humans are behaving irrationally.'

Romana glanced up from her keyboard and shook her head. 'A throwback to their primate ancestry.' There was another distant rumble of an explosion. 'Although ma.s.s hysteria normally requires a much greater stimulus. They must be terrified,'

K9 crossed to the com-unit. 'I will use my status to appeal for calm.'

But Romana barely noticed him. She was staring at her screen, which had scrolled up to reveal a new section of information on Metralubit's troubled history. '"The Yelphaj civilization,"' , she read aloud, '"which endured plague, flood and famine over nearly two thousand years, fell in less than a month."' She looked out at the city with new fear in her eyes.

The Doctor shook the grit out of his eyes and sat up, and immediately found that he couldn't see. He remembered the missiles bearing down on him, and a terrible sound, a cross between a groan and a creak, as the ground below him shuddered and gave way, and then recollection petered out. Consciousness brought only a throbbing bruise on the back of his head, darkness, and an impression that he was in some sort of enclosed cavity.

He took a box of big kitchen matches from his pocket and struck one. It illuminated the close rock walls of a narrow underground pa.s.sage, not really large enough to be called either a cave or a tunnel. He looked up and saw the opening, a good twenty feet above, down which he must have tumbled. The continued rumblings of the war zone echoed down oddly. A quick examination of the walls was enough to crush any hope of making an escape the same way, so he turned the light to bear on possible exits from the cavity. The back way closed up to a width of inches; the forward direction opened out a little. The Doctor chewed his thumbnail and considered. 'Well, I can't go back. And one more underground pa.s.sage can't make that much difference.'

And so he went on, navigating the confines with a vague hope that an exit would present itself. As he walked his thoughts turned to Seskwa. The poor fellow must have been under the enemy's thumb all along, and through him they'd had access to the Chelonian weapons systems. It was no wonder he'd tried to stir up trouble the moment they'd met. And his second death had fuelled his masters' plan beautifully. The Doctor thought again of the flies. If they were the enemy, how was he to fight them? His opponents were normally of a more solid, identifiable nature. It would be very difficult to punch a fly on the nose, more difficult still to engage it in debate.

His thoughts were interrupted by a strange echoing cry from up ahead.

Immediately he threw himself into a corner, shook his match out and stood absolutely still. He could still see himself, very vaguely. There was another light source nearby.

Carefully he crept out of hiding and walked towards it. After only a few seconds the pa.s.sage widened out into a cave proper, which was lit by a couple of phosphor lamps jammed into crevices in the walls. Their weak light revealed a number of suspicious-looking objects. There was a dishevelled mattress jammed in one comer, with a half-zipped sleeping bag and an electric blanket thrown over it. Next to this was an open tin with a spoon poking out from under the lid, and a stack of magazines. A believer in the maxim that a person's choice of reading matter will reveal much about them, the Doctor crept over and flicked through the pile.

He put them down again very quickly, blushing, and turning his attention to the other belongings. There was a clothes horse on which a set of drab grey fatigues was drying, a small refrigerator, a photocopier, and a table on which were set out, as if on a stall, a range of books and pamphlets. He was making his way across to examine these when the strange echoing cry suddenly got louder and clearer, and there came footsteps. The regular rhythm of the call made it sound like a religious chant.

The Doctor looked around, but there was nowhere to hide, and no time to escape the way he had come.

He looked to the far exit and waited as the cry resolved itself, and a shape began to form. 'Rebel Labourer!' 'Rebel Labourer!' it was chanting. it was chanting. 'Rebel Labourer!' 'Rebel Labourer!' Stop the dirty war. Stop the dirty war.

Galatea smiled as more news came in.

'...it is believed that up to a thousand people have died in the explosions in Sector 5,' said the newscaster, her image filling the big screen. 'Many more have been critically injured. The local medicentre was one of the blocks to be wiped out in the blast, and there are reports that casualties are being left on the streets to die...' "

She turned as Liris entered. 'It is all falling into place.'

But Liris was frowning. 'Galatea. The tracker shows Stokes is trying to leave the dome.' She touched her amulet and the big screen changed to show Stokes wandering aimlessly through the reception lounge, nudging past the dome's milling admin staff.

Galatea sighed. 'I had hoped retraining would not be necessary. But his is a particularly obstinate character, resistant to peer disapproval and thus resistant to psychotronic imaging.' She shook her head and motioned Liris to follow her out. 'Come. We shall go to him.'

Stokes had set out for the s.p.a.ceport with a definite step, making his way back through the blank white corridors of the Parliament Dome with impatience and a confident swagger. The s.p.a.ceport was the way out. He'd find a cargo trader, one of the frequent flyers to the colony worlds, and bribe himself a place aboard a flight. A matter of ease.

It was only as he neared the reception lounge, with its cosy leather sofas, its softly tinkling music, and its little duty-free shop, that his memory began to fail him. This was the place where people waited to catch Fasts.p.a.ce flights to the planet's other cities, the place where pilots of the cargo flights could be found. But there was n.o.body here. The place was empty.

He stood in the middle of the lounge and turned slowly. There was the door leading back into the dome; there was the door leading to the landing pads; there was the big window looking out on the city. He looked out at the greens.p.a.ces and towers and recalled the many happy hours he had spent there and the wonderful friends he had made. So many friends, charming and fashionable, who appreciated his work and his wit as never before. He had always known it, of course, that somewhere, someday, he would find good friends who understood him, would rise above the humdrum and the ba.n.a.l, elevate himself to the exclusive plane he so deserved. Now, things were falling from his grasp again, with this stupid war. Perhaps he should call on his good friends, seek shelter. Yes, good idea. He'd slip out of the dome and meet up with the gang, and together they could hatch a way to get out. He looked out over the city and shook his head.

His lip juddered. He knew he had friends, he knew he was appreciated. But when he tried to remember a particular place or name he could not. There was a horrible blank patch where his life should have been. In fact, when he tried to recall his experiences prior to leaving for Barclow a strange ache began to poke at his head.

Dimly he was aware that his legs had stopped working. He was lying on the floor, in a heap, with his mouth open. And people were walking towards him. Two sets of feet, slim and feminine, encased in moulded, metallic blue slippers.

'Mr Stokes,' said the voice of Galatea. 'Metralubit is a beautiful and hospitable place.'

Stokes raised his head and caught her gaze. It was calculating, emotionless, the blue eyes perfectly level and clear. This was enough to dislodge the blankness in his mind, and for a second he recollected everything.

The deal. The crystal. Then the long sleep. And Galatea's face, hard and cold. And the shining orange light, and the voice pummelling at his mind.

He felt Liris's hands go under his arms, and he was lifted up. He raised his hands as Galatea advanced on him. 'No. Not you... again... keep away...'

She held up her left hand. The fingers were curled tightly around a flat disc that was pulsing softly with an orange glow. 'It is a beautiful place,' she said. 'A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place...' The glow pulsed in time to her words.

Stokes smiled and started to believe it again.

Chapter Seven - The Rebels.

The Doctor realized he had one good advantage over the owner of the cave hideout. Whoever the fellow was, he would not be expecting a visitor, and was thus unlikely to be prepared to act aggressively.

He was proved right in his supposition. The man entered with a slouch and a defeated air that was at odds with the bellowing chant, which he continued to repeat automatically as he moved in, crossed to the little sink and filled his kettle with just enough water to make a brew for one. 'Rebel 'Rebel Labourer! Rebel Labourer! Labourer! Rebel Labourer! Stop the dirty war! The people protest! Stop Harmock!' He took a teabag from his food cupboard and dropped it into a cracked, unwashed mug. Stop the dirty war! The people protest! Stop Harmock!' He took a teabag from his food cupboard and dropped it into a cracked, unwashed mug.

The Doctor decided it was time to step out. 'Er, excuse me'.

The newcomer whipped round, enabling the Doctor to study him more closely. He was short and wiry, in his late twenties, with receding hair, a pair of steel-framed spectacles and an unhealthy pallor. He wore a set of coveralls identical to those drying on the clothes horse. 'Who are you?'

Before the Doctor could reply he was backing away across the cave. 'No, no, get away. You're a spy!'

'No, I'm the Doctor. Who are you?'

'I've got a weapon, you know.' He reached for his left pocket, found it empty, and then pulled out a stubby laser pistol from the right one. 'Yes, here it is, look.' He waved it at the Doctor, who didn't have the heart to point out that the safety catch was still on. 'Now, I'm a pacifist, you know, but I won't flinch from necessary violence. If the bourgeoisie are ever going to be dislodged it's the only way.'

'I'm not one of the bourgeoisie,' said the Doctor.

'You look like one,' sneered the little man. 'Dressing down. Mocking the workers with your decadent attire.' He jiggled the pistol again. 'Keep away.'

The Doctor saw the genuine fear in the man's eyes and said reasonably.

'Are we going to stand here all day doing this?'

'If necessary. Until my reinforcements arrive.' He broke off as the Doctor, who felt this impa.s.se to be a waste of time, wandered casually over to the table and glanced over the t.i.tles of the books on display. 'What are you doing?'

The Doctor picked up a slim, unill.u.s.trated volume ent.i.tled The Struggle For The Struggle For True Praxis In the Bensonian Settlements, 411 to 427. True Praxis In the Bensonian Settlements, 411 to 427. It was badly photocopied and packed with close set type. 'Having a look at your literature. Interesting.' It was badly photocopied and packed with close set type. 'Having a look at your literature. Interesting.'

'Step away from the people's library,' said the little man with as much indignation as he could muster. 'I'll shoot.'

'You aren't really going to fire that thing,' the Doctor said confidently.

The man stepped closer and waved the pistol under his nose. 'You'd better be very certain about that, Doctor.'

The Doctor carried on reading. 'Good, good. I like it. Perhaps a little more underlying menace needed in the delivery, but still, very creditable for a beginner.'

Stokes was dragged into the Conditioning Annexe by Liris, whose hydraulic muscles moved his sixteen-stone bulk with as much ease as they would have lifted a sheet of paper. The Annexe was just off the observation room, and consisted of only three objects: the folding chair on which the subject was placed, the control panel and the Conditioner itself, a large, gunlike apparatus that could be swung out and across on brackets to match the subject's eyeline.

'It's a beautiful place.' Stokes was murmuring as she rolled him over on to the chair. 'Beautiful...'

With the ease of experience Galatea adjusted the chair and brought the Conditioner's angle to bear directly on Stokes's forehead. Then she turned and said briskly, 'Liris, increase lobe stimulation to level five.'

Liris had just activated the machinery, and the order came as a shock.

'Level five? It could cause a brainstorn. Mental burn-out. Even in a hypno-state that level of conditioning could cause severe damage to the neuron flow. Particularly in such a wilful organic.'

'Timing is crucial,' said Galatea. 'He must be revived. We may need to call on his knowledge.'

Liris hesitated. 'He has already given us what we need.' Galatea pointed to the Conditioner. 'Do it!'

Liris could not disobey her. She reached out and turned the central k.n.o.b on the control panel to the notch marked '5'. 'Very well.'

Galatea softened her tone. 'It is regrettable. But we must be prepared.' Liris saw her give a small shudder. 'The days ahead are crucial, Liris. This is the time of destiny.'

The Conditioner's pointed tip, suspended only inches from Stokes's head, began to pulse softly.

K9 was watching his own broadcast to the people. 'This is an urgent communication to all my supporters. Kerb your anger. The electoral process will ensure the swift removal of this government from office. Do not allow your emotional responses to their mismanagement to overwhelming you. Stop rioting and return to your dwellings.'

He was replaced by the newscaster. 'That was Mr K9 of the Opposition pleading for calm earlier tonight. But his words seem to have gone unheeded, and unrest is spreading rapidly. There are reports that disturbances have spread as far as the...'

K9 trundled back from the screen and shook his tail angrily. 'There is no effective means to quell this ma.s.s hysteria. Social breakdown is likely.'

There was n.o.body else in the room - Romana was in her corner, hunched over the data screen - so he allowed himself a quiet growl of disapproval.

'Humans.'

Harmock's big face took its turn on the screen. 'I have heard Mr K9's speech, yes. I support the broad flow of his words, and will add my voice to his plea for people to return to their homes. But I notice he makes no mention of the police, who are doing such a good job out there on the streets, and steers clear of mentioning Barclow again. And I think we know why, don't we? Because at heart, like all the Opposition, he wants to reward the rioters and the Chelonians alike with soothing words. We can see from this example what life would be like under a K9 administration. I say to you all, don't let our planet go to the dog.'

'This is hollow and unproductive emotionalism,' said K9.